Brave
by kkrossy
Summary: She leans on me on the way back home, giggling and twirling her fingers through her hair, mumbling. "I wanna…" she slurs, thinking of what else to say. "I wanna… dance with you." Well, this will be a long night. Oneshot.


"We should go drinking," she suddenly says one evening. I am frosting a cake for an order, and she is lounged on the couch, a serious but rather suggestive look in her eyes. I take a moment to look at their shade of grey, something my doctor told me to do to remember her more. It is a darker grey tonight. After we started living with each other to heal after the war, I've noticed that her eyes change "greys" according to her mood. A very light grey when she's stressed, a little darker when she's angry. A very dark, almost haunting grey when she's sad. But when she's happy, _oh,_ when she's happy, the grey in her eyes are frozen in the middle between dark and light. They shine and crinkle with her smile that I see so rarely, and I feel like I could stare into their depths forever. It's when she's happy that I remember everything the most. I could paint a gallery just with those shades of grey in different ways and shapes and sizes for how complex she is. Beautiful.

And now she wants to go drinking.

"It should probably be at Haymitch's," she ponders, staring at the ceiling. "He has lots of liquor."

"What's gotten into you?"

"Just a feeling." She glances at me, and suggestively smiles. Wiping away the swimming feeling in the pit of my stomach that just makes me _burn_, I mumble, "It's like you're already drunk."

"What?"

"Nothing."

I decide not to drink anything as a heavily tipsy Katniss and a hopelessly wasted Haymitch drown themselves in alcohol. They shout nonsense about the scented candles on the table and about how the flame is still there in some form even after it's put out. I would find it symbolic, but I'm too distracted by how she spills some of the drink in her hair, weighing it down and making her look prettier. How her eyes start swimming with something close to happiness.

She leans on me on the way back home, giggling and twirling her fingers through her hair, mumbling. "I wanna…" she slurs, thinking of what else to say. "I wanna… dance with you." Well, this will be a long night.

"Dance with me?" I ask, trying to take on an authoritative tone to imply that I'm the one in charge tonight. She hums in response, entwining her fingers with mine. I quickly get rid of that swirling feeling in my stomach, knowing that tonight would not be the right time to let it spread.

She pulls me inside the house and immediately guides me into a dancing position, laughing at nothing. We start stepping to no rhythm, her stumbling on her own feet and me bringing her back up again when she says she wants to keep going.

"You know," she starts, her eyes swimming like a lake when the water looks grey. "You're, um…" she looks up and giggles, causing me to grin. I never see this. "You're handsome. Really…" she touches her finger to my cheek. "Really handsome."

"Thank you, Katniss," I chuckle, amused at how different she's acting. It's hilarious, really. Cute. "Well, aren't you gonna tell me I'm pretty?" She hiccups and falls against my chest, laughing at her own question.

"Alright," I look down at her, looking at me expectantly, her eyes perfectly grey and cloudy and childish. "You're pretty."

"Beautiful?"

"Beautiful."

"Good. I don't need to be beautiful, but it's good to know that I am." I almost wish I could keep her like this for longer, making me laugh so much. Almost regretful, I tell her, "We should probably go to bed." She lets out a long, agitated groan. "You're infuriating," she says, and lets out a hiccup before bounding up the stairs, waiting for me to follow her.

We lay on the bed, her clutching onto me while I gently return the gesture. She seems to be thinking about something, for she looks out the window for a while before burying her head into my chest and laughing. After a while, I ask, "What?"

"Stars."

"Stars?"

"Yeah. Wishing on them. Sometimes I wish I could-hic-um, touch them. Fly up there like a real-hic-real mockingjay, and touch them. Wish on them."

"What would you wish on?" I ask, looking at her eyes, moving and swimming like waves. Right now, I don't want to look at anything but those eyes. Too bad she's only drunk.

"That you'd kiss me," she answers, as if there is nothing wrong about the sentence. She sits up as I stiffen, staring down at me. I have wanted to kiss her for so long, since I could start remembering her and everything good about her. But when I think of trying, she would shoo me away, saying we weren't ready. Or, I start thinking of how long it would take my hands to get to her throat. It's then when I feel like breaking down and screaming because I want to love her so badly, but the Capitol always comes back, even for a split second, and pulls her away from me. Sometimes I don't see how it connects but other times it is so clear that it's frightening. It scares me to get too close, because I would lash out and she would keep me away from her forever.

But now she wants me to kiss her. "You're drunk," I tell her, trying to keep her away for her own safety. "You won't remember anything in the morning. It won't count." I try to tell myself that I don't want to kiss her, that she doesn't want to kiss me; that she's just under the influence of alcohol. She looks away for a moment, maybe remembering something, and then she hiccups and hums back at me.

"Come on, Peeta." She takes my hands and starts to rub circles on my palms. "-hic- be brave. I want to see you be brave."

"I'm not brave?" I ask her playfully. She giggles and tells me that I'm very brave, and that she wants me to kiss her. She takes on a sober look, her eyes almost frozen in the happy grey she rarely takes on. When she smiles, my skin burns from her fire and I throw away every fear I thought I had. I lunge forward and press my lips against hers. They taste like fruit, like fruit cocktail. It's good, and she immediately responds in a way that makes me feel like this is all she's ever wanted. She tries to drown herself in me instead of the alcohol and I feel like I'm worth something to her, like I'm worth something to everything. I feel like I can conquer the world, and I don't care at the moment that she will be suffering from a rather terrible hangover tomorrow.

And when we break apart and open our eyes, I marvel at how she's smiling so widely, how her eyes are sparkling a perfect grey, and how her lips are slightly parted as if she's starting to sing.


End file.
